


Teach Him how to Heal

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anger, Angst, Anxiety, Body Image, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Returns, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, be patient my pretties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:25:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier returns to Steve, to where he belongs, but he is in a worse way the Steve expected and needs all the help he can get to remember how to be Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Debrief

**Author's Note:**

> There will be smut but not for now. There will be mentions of suicidal ideation and self-harm throughout so please be careful.

There was a dull ache in his back and his feet that Bucky was not used to noticing during a mission. But then again, this was not a real mission, there was no motive to distract him, no matter how much he tried to comfort himself pretending that it was. His ten miles a day of walking around Washington DC like a shadow were aimless at best. He had broken into some guy’s apartment and stolen an outfit, grey jeans, a dark blue t-shirt and a rucksack, the contents of which he had emptied on the floor of the unfamiliar bathroom and replaced with his own blood-crusted and smoke-smelling combat gear. The weapons, mainly small handguns and knives were organised in the various pockets and Bucky had soon memorised their locations.

 _Not that you’ll actually need them, you have no mission,_ he had resentfully thought to himself as he had vaulted out of the second storey window and onto the concrete of the alleyway below. The thought had sent a deep pang of worthlessness and anxiety through the soldier’s chest that was only just starting to lessen. That or he was getting used to it being there.

He got to a small communal garden-type place, surrounded by cherry blossom trees that were starting to brown and shed in the cool autumn air and rows of parked cars and bicycles. They must have belonged to the people in the apartment building next of the grassy square because there was a large blue sign that read ‘PRIVATE PARKING, residents only.”

Bucky sat down on a bench at the edge of the square and huffed a sigh as his muscles thanked him for the welcome break. Walking through the night with what felt like a head full of bees was starting to take its toll. Now, the stark and crisp morning ached his eyes and made him itch. He could feel the boundaries between his memories and the present become lucid and vague, he would become absorbed in the smallest part of a sentence, repeating it over and over in his head until it ceased to make any sense. Images of cars and smoke and gunfire splashed through the fragile frames and snapshots of memory left in his head.

And Steve. Always Steve.

Standing there and looking at him, straight into him, his gaze wrapping its way through the gaps between his bruised organs, like water filling cracks in stone. Vivid blue and broken. He could not remember why seeing Steve Roger’s eyes like that hurt him so much, why he hated seeing him that sad but he did. Achingly so, and the thought of seeing the man on the bridge pull that face again settled in Bucky’s stomach like spoiled milk; uncomfortable and sour.

Bucky scanned the small park. There were five children, small and red with wind-battered excitement running around, kicking leaves and twigs at each other under the conservative but watchful eye of their parents nearby. There was a black and tan dog sniffing the base of one of the worse for wear cherry trees too. There were only a few cars, mainly pushbikes and scooters.

And a large blue Harley Davidson motorcycle.

“Shit,” Bucky whispered under his breath, ducking his head and frowning at the worn patch of grass under his feet.

He knew that bike, and for once, he did not have to think too hard to remember where from. The man on the bridge. Steve Rogers.

Bucky stood up and walked with his head down, as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. He could almost feel the outline of that god forsaken bike burning a hole between his shoulder blades as he picked up his pace, letting his hair fall about his face to cover it. He jammed his hands into his pockets and timed his steps with the hammering in his chest, causing him to break into a jog. He hit an obstruction, hard enough that it made a sound.

“Shi-sorry I…” The man went silent and Bucky held his breath.

“Look at me.”

Bucky tensed, hearing the authority in the voice that was painfully familiar and new all at the same time. It was an order. It was comforting, strangely, and made Bucky’s stomach twinge.

Steve took a shaky breath, keeping the smile tugging at his mouth and the tears burning his nose steady with a short cough.

“So what’s a guy like you doing at a place like this?” Steve sighed, smiling weakly through the new thumping in his ribcage.

Bucky’s mind raced. He pulled the combat knife and handgun out of his jeans pocket and pushed them into Steve’s hands.

“I’m debriefing,” Bucky croaked, “You’re my Captain.”

Steve sighed and smiled, reaching out to touch Bucky’s shoulder but withdrawing when he flinched.

“I am your Captain,” Steve whispered, putting the weapons in his own pockets, “Permission to debrief.”

 


	2. I'm Here

Steve tried hard not to stare. He tried hard not to let his eyes rake obsessively over every angle and scar and twitch in Bucky’s face that he had been so starved of for so many years. It was hard; he wanted to drink in that beautiful, scarce picture like a wanderer at an oasis. This seventy years had been an emotional drought for Steve.

“You’ve been in Washington this whole time,” Steve mumbled, half to himself, “I can’t believe I didn’t find you.”  


Steve had been hyper-diligent since he had been sent home from hospital prior to the Potomac incident. Truth is, he had not been sent home at all, all he knew was that a very sweet young nurse called Sarah would have had some serious explaining to do to the Ward Sister when she found that Captain America had broken out on her night shift. The guilt had worn off painlessly once Steve had begun his cycle of nightly rides around the city, eyes peeled and tired, fixed upon the roof tops for any sign of the Winter Soldier. Sam and Natasha had helped, Natasha using any contacts she had and Sam with the Falcon pack, searching from above. It seemed almost silly that after all of that Steve would find Bucky outside his house.

The pair jogged up the stairs to the third floor of the apartment block stopping outside the door to Steve’s apartment. Steve unlocked and opened the door. Bucky froze.

“What do you want me to do?” Bucky looked puzzled, like he was doing sums in his head, “Once I’m inside?”  


Steve paused, assessing the obvious anxiety on the soldier’s face. He understood it.

“D’you need orders, Buck?” Steve said quietly, not wanting to embarrass him but not wanting to come off condescending either, “It’s okay if you do.”  


Bucky took a shaky breath, before nodding sheepishly.

“Okay,” Steve put a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder, “I want you to go inside and sit down on the couch.”  


Bucky obeyed, sitting on the grey couch in Steve’s living room. He supressed the urge to jump straight back up again when he felt how soft it was, the way the cushions seemed to absorb and hug his weight, but he remembered his orders. Just sit on the couch.

Steve sat down next to him. The Captain looked drained, more so, Bucky thought, than the last time he had seen him. There was a certain weariness in the usual clarity of his eyes, the blue was not quite so blue.

“I’ve missed you,” Steve whispered, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring down at the mink coloured carpet beneath his feet, “So much. So much, Bucky.”  


Bucky nodded, but said nothing. There was nothing he could say to make this better, nothing to reassure or comfort that he could find in the swirling mess of thoughts that made up his mind. He had become very good at being efficient, dispatching problems with the click of a trigger. The fallout from that was simply erased. He would shower, rubbing soap in his eyes till they burned and drink till he fell asleep. He’d wake up in the morning, vomit the previous day’s shame, and wait for whatever sick fuck Hydra had employed that day to burn the memories out of his head once and for all. Quick, brutal but quick.

This was different. He did not want to erase Steve’s pain, burn it out. He wanted to acknowledge its existence and give it its significance. He wanted to fix it. He had no clue how.

“I’m here now,” Bucky cringed at how blunt his words came out.

Steve turned and smiled. His face had reddened since he had looked down and his cheeks were damp.

“Yeah,” he smiled weakly, “You are.”  


Steve sat up and pulled Bucky towards him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. The metal one was cold, but surprisingly human under his hands. There was a hum of life under the plates of interlocked metal. Sure, it was an electrical hum, but it reminded Steve of a pulse. It sickened and calmed Steve, but the arm seemed to fit.

Bucky stiffened into the embrace, muscles tightening against the penetrating, invasive warmth.

“Sorry,” Steve recoiled, feeling in the rise in Bucky’s breathing.

Bucky shook his head and pressed back into the warmth and consumption of Steve’s arms, burying his forehead into his shoulder and clenching his eyes until his vision buzzed and his nose ached. He heat running down his cheeks startled him. He thought he was bleeding until he felt the tightness in his throat that told him the hot, rolling beads were tears, not blood.

“Shh,” Steve soothed, smoothing Bucky’s hair into submission at the back of his head.

The jarring shakes of the soldier’s tears rocked them both. Dry, hoarse and silent sobs that were muffled by the closeness of their chests.

The pair stayed tangled like this, arms wrapped tight until their muscles started to ache. Bucky’s tears only stopped when the sleep that he had been robbed of for far too long overcame him and his body went slack against the Captain’s chest.

Steve closed his eyes, laying back on the small couch slowly and sighing.

For the first time in years, the Forties, Brooklyn, true happiness, they didn’t seem so many worlds away.


	3. Terrified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graphic violence

_Bucky closed his eyes, pressing his chin to his chest to obstruct the view of what he was doing. Tears ran down his cheeks, dropping down and making little dark dots on the green t-shirt of his latest target. Not really a target, more collateral damage. Messy and underprepared, Bucky mentally scolded himself. He had not known that his mark had a son. The woman he had seen him with had gone home to a small apartment, with no signs of children. Bucky had never hated someone for having an affair so much in his life._

_“Shut up!” Bucky sobbed through his teeth as his metal hand tightened around the boy’s throat, “Please, I’m sorry.”_

_The small boy, six years old maybe, slowly stopped kicking at Bucky’s chest, and the dull chokes and growls that were coming from his crushed larynx started to gargle away. Bucky gagged against his flesh hand as he felt the cartilage and bone give way with a wet crunch under him metal fingers. The boy shuddered and fell still._

_Bucky laid him down on his bed, pulling the quilt up over his tiny body. Shivers came over the soldier, bringing him to his knees on the blue and red spotted play mat of the dark room. He had to complete this hit._

_“Calm down,” Bucky whispered to himself, “Calm down.”_

 

“Calm down, Bucky!” Steve coughed, trying to unfurl metal fingers from around his throat, “Calm down, pal.”

Steve had woken up to his head slamming into the arm of the couch. Bucky was on top of him, cheeks flaring red and pressing the heel of his left hand hard against his throat. His eyes were closed and his words were disjointed.

“Shut UP!” Bucky’s voice was hoarse with sleep and exertion, but not angry.

Scared. Scared and conflicted.

Whilst his left hand, the metal one was tense and forceful, the right one was warm and clasping the side of Steve’s face like he was comforting him. His tone was pleading and desperate.

“Bucky,” Steve choked, feeling the metal fingertips quiver and tighten, “Please, Bucky.”

Steve took a gasp of well-deserved oxygen as Bucky’s fingers came loose.

Bucky slid backward, off of the couch and onto the floor.

“I’m so…” Bucky’s words dissolved into sobs and coughs.

Steve got to the floor with Bucky, working to squeeze his long legs into the small space between the coffee table and the edge of the couch.

“It’s okay,” Steve whispered, taking Bucky’s metal hand in both of his and holding it to his chest.

Bucky paused, turning to Steve and eyeing the way Steve was holding his hand so readily.

“I’m not scared of you, Bucky,” Steve shrugged, running his fingertips over the groves on Bucky’s arm, ghosting over the little gaps in the plates where occasional pulses of light from the internal machinery would bling and waver.

Steve meant it; he was not scared of Bucky but he could tell that _Bucky_ was.

Bucky was terrified.

 


End file.
